Unknown date (speculated March 2010)

“Everyone thinks I’m so weird but they don’t even stop to think that Albert Einstein was weird and look what he has become. All those genius people were weird. No one thinks that maybe I have human feelings too and that somehow, somewhere I could change the world. If I was treated with respect I could soar instead of being chained up in lies. No one ever thinks that beauty is skin deep and even though I’m fat it doesn’t matter. I hate all the stupid people who have made fun of me. Because you will regret it when I change the world. And I’ll give my special thanks speech and you WILL NOT BE THANKED!!!!!!!!!!!” 

April 24th, 2013

We’ll all be dead. Our legacies will continue on for a short period of time, but there will come a time when even that will die out, and our lives will have been for nothing. Of course, there’s always a chance that we’ll become like Homer and be remembered hundreds of years later. But how likely is that? We’ll be dead. Theoretically, we’ll affect someone, and that person will affect others because we affected them…but eventually that cycle dies out and we become just another half-rotted corpse. Think of all the people who didn’t change the world. They’ve sunken into the ever-deepening pit of oblivion.

Perhaps oblivion is my greatest fear. Yes, it is the root of my fears. Oblivion. Root of my fears, but inevitable still!

ISo why do some people get screwed over by life? Actually, life is a complete slut! It screws everybody (but some more than others)! Why do some people have to suffer so much?

There comes a point when one realizes that everyone will have to have a loved one die. I don’t think my parents will outlive me. Out of all the people I love, at least one is going to die and I’m going to have to face that. That scares me. I wouldn’t survive that. I swear, I would die. But it’s inevitable. Just like sinking into oblivion.

I try to imagine the world without me, and it’s hard. No, I’m not being selfish. I’m thinking about the trail of pain I’d leave if I just died. Trying to imagine being dead. I’m going to try to think about it….

Well, someone is notified that you’re dead. Whatever the cause, you’re dead. The police have to tell your parents (I would hate to be the one to have to do that). Your parents don’t sleep that night, tossing and turning, trying in vain to convince themselves you’re really still alive. Eventually, they have to walk in your room and see it–how it was, so untouched, so real. But you are not. You are dead. They have to arrange a funeral. People say stuff about your life, but you can’t hear. You’re dead. Everyone has to act reverent, like you did so much with your short life. But deep down, someone is thinking–you did nothing. You took money from your parents, you were provided free shelter and education, you existed, and then ceased to exist.

The school has to be notified also. All those tests you took, all those hours spent on homework, none of it matters anymore. Everybody passes by your locker knowing it was yours. The dead girl’s locker. Suddenly, all you’re remembered for is the fact that you died. Each time you complained about gym class doesn’t matter anymore. Your friends know you’re dead. There’s an empty seat at the lunch table. Even that girl who you only talked to a few times knows you’re dead. The ex-boyfriend knows you’re dead and silently grieves you. What once seemed to full of life and words is now just a body, a shell, a bag of formaldehyde and chemicals shoved in a box and buried underground. All you are now is a gravestone. Your family is in pieces, but you can’t help them. There’s an empty place at the dinner table. At least your family can book rooms for four instead of having a fifth person on the floor, but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. They look through photo albums of you, seeing that happy little baby growing up. Taking her first steps, going to kindergarten, learning to read. That little girl is dead. Forever gone. All the people that truly loved you have to go on without you. Without your poetry, all your unfinished short stories, all your crazy freak writer girlishness. It’s gone. All they have of you is what you left behind. Your ideas that were never put on paper died with you. That smiling face is pasty white now. Those crying eyes are glassy. You can only hope it was enough. But it wasn’t. You were too young to die. Loved ones got to say goodbye to you for a few short minutes at the viewing–but it’s not the same. You can’t laugh with them, hug them. All you can do is lay there, motionless. Cold. Your favorite song plays, and your family cries. Your favorite TV shows. Your favorite books. Everything seems to be another reminder of you. Someone has to pronounce you dead on Facebook–either that or just leave it there, sinking to the bottom of profiles. Every email you sent is still there, but no more. Ever. At Thanksgiving, your cousins are quiet. At Christmas, there are fewer presents around the tree. Every dream you had was cut short. You didn’t get to walk down the aisle, publish a book, or have kids. Your mother of three becomes a mother of two. Everyone has to face the fact that your heart doesn’t beat anymore, blood doesn’t rush through your veins. It’s not the same without you. Even Sunday school classes are quieter. Family photos are missing a member. Your dad was saving your college money–now what? Vacations aren’t the same. But most of all, you’re gone. You’re gone forever. Every little quirk you had lives only in the memories of your loved ones. They cry, but you can’t help.

You are dead.

May 1st, 2013

“Oh, do bad days end! What a stark contrast to yesterday.

It’s May. That made me wake up just happy. 28 days till I’m fourteen!

It’s so nice to live openly and creatively. I’m gonna change the freaking world.

I’m so glad I don’t cut anymore. Like really. I mean, I still get semi-frequent urges, but I stand through it and don’t let them take me under.

I’m so confident now. I heard these two guys behind me in the hallway saying “Oh my God, she’s so fat.” And I thought to myself– “Well, that can’t be me, then.” I hear people laughing and talking and saying mean things…it makes me really sad to hear them say that, but I don’t feel self-conscious and weird, because I just know it’s not me. Even if they were saying it about me, it wouldn’t be true, so who freaking cares? 🙂

Some of my friends in gym are pretty mean to me because I’m different. It doesn’t really bother me as much. I mean, it’s not like I like it. It’s not pleasant, but it doesn’t change me or ruin my day or even my class period. I just let it go. Like once I was talking about fate and destiny and stuff, and one of them was like “I’m already pissed off. If you piss me off any more, you won’t want to see that.” And I was like “Is that a threat?” And she was like “Yes, that’s a THREAT.” But I was just like eh okay, and went and hung out with my other friends. Those mean friends laugh at me for being different. It’s kind of compliment though, that I’m associated with being different.

Or the other day in the bathroom, these girls were freaking out in front of the mirror. Common sight. I see it all the time. So I was like “Don’t worry about it, you look beautiful.” And I smiled at them. They just gave me that mean girl “um what is wrong with you” look. But I just kept smiling and walked past. How is it my problem if they don’t want to take a compliment? A few months ago that would have really bothered me, but now I get it. It’s not my problem. I did nothing wrong there. Besides, maybe it did really bless them and they just didn’t show it.

I get that a lot. My mean friends are always saying “What is wrong with you?” Actually, not just those mean friends. A lot of people. Maybe they should start asking “What is right with you?” Those mean friends are so shallow. Fair-weather friends. They literally tell me when and when not to talk. Not even kidding. But who cares? I just don’t hang out with them as much. They have each other, and I have me.

I don’t like the process of getting to know people. I’d rather just be able to be good friends with them immediately. Some people really love meeting others, getting to know them, etc. I just don’t. It’s not that I’m scared of people anymore (I think that’s pretty obvious from this email!) it’s just a preference. Meeting people is just necessary.

You know what bothers me? A lot of people don’t know how to be alone. I get that there are introverts and extroverts, but you have to learn the skill of being still. Being alone and quiet isn’t a problem for me, of course. Being alone is preferable. 🙂

It feels relieving not to be scared of people. Usually I observe the situation before talking to someone, just because. I like observing.

I get that some people like to go to parties with a bunch of people they don’t know and meet everyone, etc. But you know what I love? The creek. Just bring my writing notebook to the creek and write.

I love myself.

Not in a proud or self-centered way. I just love myself.

Did I just say that?

Yes I did.”

October 23rd, 2012

The following entry contains some triggering content.

“I never get texts or emails. Ever. Nobody EVER just texts me up saying “Hey what’s up?” I am ALWAYS the one initiating conversation. Text and email. It makes me feel like such a loser. That nobody cares enough to just ask how I’m doing. Even if they already know. Most people don’t respond to my texts anyway. So I’m always so needy for a conversation. Makes me feel so pathetic, because with the few relationships I do keep going outside of real life, they don’t care. So when someone texts or emails me FIRST, I’m always extremely happy. It brings me so much joy, like they thought about me and cared enough to see how things are. Pathetic, I know. But true. It touches me to know someone cares about me. Most days that’s all I need, is just someone to text me up saying “Hey, was thinking about you, what’s up?” But that NEVER happens. I start the conversation, and then they start caring and when I say I feel annoying they’re all like “No, I care!!!” If they ‘cared’ so much, why did I have to be the one to start the conversation? Psh. Some caring people. Stupid idiots.

But it’s really not about them. It’s about me. I deserve it. For being annoying. I’ve always been the annoying one. These are some of the most painful words EVER (not necessarily in order) that someone could ever say to me…

-Loser
-Ugly
-Nobody likes you
-Nobody cares about you
-Stalker
-Will never amount to anything

And the most touching words:

-I love you [unfortunately on list of top 5 lies]
-amazing
-special
-beautiful
-strong
-Will change the world

Those words get me every time. I feel like crying any time someone says that to me. Bad tears or good tears. Still crying.

I am going to give myself a hug. *hugs self* It’s okay, self. I’ll always be there for me. There, there. Calm down, self. Everything’s gonna be okay, just hug myself.

Absolutely pathetic.

Why have my evenings been like this? Will it always be like this?

All I ever do is push people away, the few people that care.

It makes me sad. Very sad. But that’s just becoming the new normal. Sad. It’s becoming a mini-January. Almost every day is like this, it feels like.

Wouldn’t it be amazing if God were human? I would go up to him and take him into my living room and sit him on my couch and hug up next to him and cry deeply. And he would hold me and not say anything at the moment. That just sounds sooo good right now, to just throw myself on him and cry.

But that’s a fantasy. Reality is crying alone in bed. Quietly, so no one will hear.

Whenever someone says “oh I’m here for you” or “if you ever need a shoulder to cry on I’m here”. False. Fake. Lies. If you actually took them up on it they’d look at you weird. But wouldn’t that be amazing if people actually meant that? I need that. I’m not the type of person who likes to keep things hidden. I like to let out my feelings. On a green light. Not red. Like, green light is safe to let out feelings. Yellow is iffy. Red is unsafe.

Examples:

Green: talking to friend in privacy, or on phone….

Yellow: with friends in public maybe

Red: at school

I live on red and yellow lights. That’s mostly what it is. Rarely is it safe.

I can’t live life like this anymore. Hiding from the world. Hiding from people. Being afraid.

I really need to fling myself on God and let myself cry for once. Deeply. Tears really are just liquid pain, anyway.

Sometimes I wonder about suicide, but I never go that far. But it’s a faint thought deep in the caverns of my heart. If things get REALLY REALLY REALLY bad, that’s always an option. I look at the bleach, and I think how easy it would be.

Then I think about who I’d be leaving behind. How many tears would fall? Who would attend my funeral? Who would deeply care?

I know if I lost a friend, I would cry sooo much, my life would be shattered. I believe I would kill myself. Truly I would in that circumstance.

I need to shake this sadness cloud thats been following me I’m afraid it will never leave.”

September 13th, 2012

“I want to hear Gods voice. I want him so bad…but it seems like I’m not good enough. Like other Christians are better…I’ve been a Christian for 10 years… I still feel like a baby. 10 years. Still feeling like a baby Christian.

I want confidence, and wisdom, and an awesome relationship with God. That’s my wishes if I could get a genie. Unfortunately genies don’t exist.

I want those 3 wishes. Not wealth, or power…that isn’t as important.

I’m tired of being afraid. Tired of feeling empty inside. Tired of being tired! I want something to hold on to. I’m not talking about literally.

The feeling of tears…it’s all too familiar. Chaos. Pain. Feeling helpless in a black hole. My mind and my heart never walk hand in hand. No one even realizes this.

I wish I could feel God holding my hand, my heart, carrying me. I feel all alone right now. I don’t feel secure. I feel like I’m falling through quicksand.

What am I saying. I’m such a idiot.”

June 3rd, 2013

“I wish I could just take the entire pain of the world, just take it away from everyone, and take it alone in order to spare everyone else. I’ve been thinking about this all day. My life would be horrible, but everyone else would be okay. And if it meant the happiness of everybody else, I would do it. For the world. For my loved ones. For everybody. My heart breaks that I can’t take it away. I can’t destroy everything that hurts my loved ones. And I want to. I want to touch everybody. I want everybody to know joy and love, hope and peace. To everyone who is hurting, to everyone who is in need, even to those who are just having a bad day. I just want to be there for everyone. But I can’t be there for everyone. I so wish I could. Even swag people have feelings. I would even show compassion for them. There has to be something I can do to change the world. There isn’t, is there? Because even if you become good friends with someone, they’ll have hurts and pains you’ll never know about. So there’s no way to tell. There’s nothing you could say to help them, because you don’t even know what’s wrong.

I can only hope that my life can be an example. I can only hope that I will shine a mysterious light that people will want to know about.

I want to be a candle. I want to show this world hope. I wish I could do it all, but I can’t. I could nearly cry just looking around on the street. Everyone has a story. You never know. You won’t ever know. And that is so heartbreaking.

I just wish I could take away everyone’s pain.”

March 18th, 2013

The following poem is especially triggering/graphic, as is most of my poetry in the 8th grade category.

“Clench my fists and count my sins
Try to hide the state I’m in
Close my eyes and count to ten
I’ll be dead–all over then.

Drops of blood drip down my wrist
No goodbye hug, no goodbye kiss
My shallow heart’s my only friend
Let me cry; myself I rend.

Never learned to love myself
Wipe my blood upon the shelf
Let it stay there; let it stain
Smiles I fake and life I feign.

Soaked in blood, but not enough
Self destroyed, yet still so tough
Dry it off and start again
Don’t come near, for I’m insane.

Or am I? I will never know
Life is death, and friend is foe
Simple minds are not for me
Normal I will never be.

Boiling deep inside is rage
so much anger for my age
Darkness come, encase my heart
Pacify my screaming heart.

All I see now is the sky
Happy that I cannot fly
Falling to my certain death
Take the pain for one last breath.”

June 4th, 2013

“I am so pissed and in hate with the world

not in love
in hate

I hate terrorists and thieves and murderers and rapists and bullies and swag people and abusive parents and dictatorships and sickness and death and grief and torture and injustice and lack of sleep

Lack of sleep doesn’t belong with the rest

does it

oh well

I am

feeling psycho right now

can’t even
write a full sentence

like

really

what is wrong with me

a

what

I

psycho

I”

February ?, 2013

The following poem is especially triggering/graphic. Also, the formatting came out weird, and I couldn’t fix it. So what was actually a poem with multiple verses now looks like a monstrous clump.

“There lives a vicious monster, and it tears away my flesh
It rips away the skin on top and lets out blood (it’s fresh)
I cannot scream, I cannot fight, I cannot run or hide
There is no place of refuge, for the monster lives inside.

I plaster on my made-up smile, my superficial mask
What lies inside that plastic veil? so many people ask
I try to scream–my throat is dry–inside my lonely hell
What’s in my heart? What’s in my soul? Well, I could never tell.

I don’t hate you, or him or her, I only hate myself
and all the sharpest objects that sit high upon my shelf
In darkest times I reach for them, they seem to set me free
It’s not the truth, it’s just a lie, for they imprison me

I have to watch in silence as I see my heart unfold
Before me on a platter is my broken, shattered soul
I see the world move forward with my half glazed-over eyes
Me? I just move backward, sinking deeper into lies.

All the things I’ve done before, they cannot be undone
My guilt traps me in darkness, and it hides me from the sun
I have to bear the pain from guilt, its every claw and peck
It slithers up my back and then holds tight around my neck.

Now here I sit in solitude, in pools of blood and tears
My heart, wrapped up in chains to face my greatest pains and fears
The clock ticks on and hours fly, I’m running out of time
What’s that you ask? Am I alright? Oh yes, in fact, I’m fine.

I cry by night and soak my pillow, then I hide by day
I cannot trust or speak or call, there’s nothing left to say
Sometimes I wonder to myself, I wish I wasn’t born
Don’t bother with your saving me, my heart’s already torn.”

November 24th, 2013

“I hate myself. But it’s different. It’s not the insecure low self-esteem like twelve-year-olds have. It’s not body hate. I’m pretty okay with my physical appearance (except on some days, or if you’re comparing me to people).

So there’s low self-esteem/insecurity that I feel like most people sort of grow out of? It’s not like that. It’s not like seventh grade insecurity. It’s different.

You know, the first time I actually started hurting myself–seventh grade–I didn’t know that it would actually become a problem. I just did it those few times and forgot about it. And then I always surprise myself–when something comes up that I don’t feel like I can deal with–something more major–I find myself doing it again, almost without thinking. Of course I made the decision, but you know what I mean? Every time. It happens every time.

And I think the actual cutting is not the problem. The real problem is that I don’t love or accept or value myself. When I went those 7 months and 8 days without hurting myself at all, I wasn’t doing it for me. I said I was, but was I? No. I forced myself not to because I didn’t want to hurt the people around me. Of course that’s a very good reason, but you really need to find a reason to recover, not for anyone else, but for YOU. You need to learn to value yourself, you know?

And that’s something I have not truly felt for a very long time. One could argue that I felt it this past spring and summer–and maybe it’s true to some extent–but honestly, that whole time I just covered everything up and was almost afraid to be anything but happy.

What surprises me is that my parents are surprised that I’m showing suicidal tendencies. I’ve showed suicidal tendencies since I was ten years old. Is this a shock to them? Why didn’t they react this way last year, or the year before? Why now?

Is it weird that sometimes I find myself wishing that nobody loved me so I wouldn’t feel obligated to not take my own life? I don’t feel like my peers think about this stuff.”